Ode, Composed on May Morning / William Wordsworth

Ode, Composed on May Morning

While from the purpling east departs
    The star that led the dawn,
Blithe Flora from her couch upstarts,
    For May is on the lawn.
A quickening hope, a freshening glee,
    Foreran the expected Power,
Whose first-drawn breath, from bush and tree,
    Shakes off that pearly shower.

All Nature welcomes Her whose sway
    Tempers the year's extremes;
Who scattereth lustres o'er noon-day,
    Like morning's dewy gleams;
While mellow warble, sprightly trill,
    The tremulous heart excite;
And hums the balmy air to still
    The balance of delight.

Time was, blest Power! when youth and maids
    At peep of dawn would rise,
And wander forth, in forest glades
    Thy birth to solemnize.
Though mute the song – to grace the rite
    Untouched the hawthorn bough,
Thy Spirit triumphs o'er the slight;
    Man changes, but not Thou!

Thy feathered Lieges bill and wings
    In love's disport employ;
Warmed by thy influence, creeping things
    Awake to silent joy:
Queen art thou still for each gay plant
    Where the slim wild deer roves;
And served in depths where fishes haunt
    Their own mysterious groves.

Cloud-piercing peak, and trackless heath,
    Instinctive homage pay;
Nor wants the dim-lit cave a wreath
    To honor thee, sweet May!
Where cities fanned by thy brisk airs
    Behold a smokeless sky,
Their puniest flower-pot-nursling dares
    To open a bright eye.

And if, on this thy natal morn,
    The pole, from which thy name
Hath not departed, stands forlorn
    Of song and dance and game;
Still from the village-green a vow
    Aspires to thee addrest,
Wherever peace is on the brow,
    Or love within the breast.

Yes! where Love nestles thou canst teach
    The soul to love the more;
Hearts also shall thy lessons reach
    That never loved before.
Stript is the haughty one of pride,
    The bashful freed from fear,
While rising, like the ocean-tide,
    In flow the joyous year.

Hush, feeble lyre! weak words refuse
    The service to prolong!
To yon exulting thrush the Muse
    Entrusts the imperfect song;
His voice shall chant, in accents clear,
    Throughout the live-long day,
Till the first silver star appear,
    The sovereignty of May.

~~
William Wordsworth (1770-1850),1826
from Yarrow Revisited and other poems, 1835

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

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